


Starting Line-up

by kaasknot



Series: No clock to kill [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Gangbang, HYDRA Trash Compactor Challenge, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Homophobia, Involuntary orgasm, M/M, Self-directed victim-blaming, pre-serum steve
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-05
Updated: 2015-02-05
Packaged: 2018-03-10 15:23:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,569
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3295325
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kaasknot/pseuds/kaasknot
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It starts on a hot day in June.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Starting Line-up

**Author's Note:**

> Here. *flings out fic* I don't wanna write it anymore. Sequel to "Batting Order," because I have a disease and it is called "skinny Steve getting gangbanged." Note: this is a retelling from Steve's perspective, so be warned that there are graphic descriptions of multiple gang rapes and their aftermath.
> 
> Thanks to stoatsandwich at some point, probably; definitely thanks to shinelikethunder. I hate you both.

It starts on a hot day in June. Steve steps out of the butcher's shop with a fresh-cut chuck roast, neatly wrapped in paper and tied closed, tucked under his arm. Doyle gave him a raise; it's past time he enjoyed it.

It starts when he hears a wolf-whistle, and he looks up to see Elmer Sullivan, local roustabout and all-around thug, slinking down the street after Louisa Rutkowski. He's got two more guys at his back, and another walking down the middle of the street, flanking her and cutting off her escape.

Louisa's got a reputation among the mothers that lean out the front windows to gossip over laundry. _That Louisa_ , they say. _She's got loose morals. She'll never find a decent husband, just you wait_. Steve doesn't put much stock in gossip, and all he needs to know about Louisa is that she gave his ma the last of _her_ ma's consumption tonic, for all the good it did her in the end.

"Hey, Cassidy!" Sullivan calls out. "How do you get a Polack out of the bath tub?"

"How?" Cassidy shouts back.

"Throw in a bar of soap!"

Steve watches Louisa's shoulders hunch against their laughter. He sees the way she picks up the pace, and he steps out after them. The hairs on the back of his neck are rising--violence hangs in the air like clouds before a storm.

There's an alleyway just up ahead. It's a long one, but it leads out to 10th, a larger, busier street than Broughton. Steve sees Louisa's step quicken, and his heart sinks. Sullivan and his gang converge and drive her in between the tenement and a dry cleaners. He runs after as fast as his flat feet will let him.

When he catches up they've got her pinned in a doorway, and they're plucking at her clothes. Her purse lays on forgotten on the ground. Her arms are up; she slaps at an offending hand.

"Aw, don't be like that, honey," one of them says, and that's it. Steve's seen enough.

"Hey!" His voice cracks across the bare brick, startling them all. "She told you to stop."

Sullivan narrows his piggy eyes at him. "Steve Rogers, ain't it," he says. "You got no business with us, so why don't you run along?"

"Sure, soon as you let her go," Steve replies. He nods to Louisa, who's staring at him as though he's a threat, too. It curdles in his belly. He turns back to Sullivan. "You got that much problem getting a girl you'll sink to _this_?" It's a shot in the dark--a dangerous one--but it pays off: Sullivan turns to face him fully, and his pals are looking back and forth between him and their boss more than they're paying mind to Louisa. Steve doesn't dare look at her. She takes the hint, scoops up her purse, and hightails it down the alley.

One of them hears the scrape of her heel and turns, and he tries to grab her skirt but she's around the corner before he can reach. Steve slips around to block the way.

"The hell are you doing!"

"She doesn't need you chasing after her," Steve says, and he sees Sullivan's brow come down. He sees the moment it gets personal.

"You lost us our girl, Rogers," he says. He turns to his crew. "We gonna settle for that?"

" _Hell_ no," Cassidy says with a nasty smile.

"You lost us our girl," Sullivan repeats. "Think we can settle for a fairy." They start shifting around, spreading to circle him. Steve swallows back his unease.

"Yeah?" he says. "You volunteering?"

The smallest one snorts. "Can you believe this guy?"

"Think it's time we put this little pissant in his place," Sullivan snarls, and throws the first punch.

Steve likes to think he's a good fighter. He's been in enough fights to know his way around a punch, anyway. But Sullivan moonlights as a bare-knuckle boxer down at the Navy Yard, and while it does his face no favors, it damn well taught him a one-two combo. Steve dodges the jab, but the left hook catches him out of nowhere, and he spins into the arms of the nearest goon. The roast tumbles out of his arms.

Laughter. Steve's head spins. He pushes off the guy back to his feet, puts his fists up, but another punch knocks him in the gut, taking the wind out of his sails. He folds around it and sags to his knees. He pants for a moment but hauls himself back up, because this isn't going any easier if he won't face it like a man. The next blow isn't a punch, but a foot thrust between his own to trip him up.

They're playing with him, he realizes. It makes anger claw its way out of his chest. "You gonna stand around all day, or you gonna fight?" he demands.

Sullivan's expression is dark and ugly. "Sic 'em," he says, and that's that. They pile on top of him, throwing punches and yanking at his clothes. Steve yells at them the whole time, calling them names his mother would wash his mouth out to hear, but it comes down the same: him on his knees in the filth, with Cassidy's knees on his hands and Sullivan's knife cutting away his belt. Rough hands drag his pants down over his skinny hips to hobble him.

"You owe us, Rogers," Sullivan says, laying his thick hands against Steve's ass and prying his cheeks apart. "You ain't nearly as sweet as a woman."

"You're no rose, either," Steve snaps back. "Didn't your ma ever show you what soap looks like?"

He hears Sullivan growl, then hears him hawk up spit. He wonders for a bare moment what the warm wetness is that lands on the pucker of his ass, but then he twigs, and he shudders in disgust. The reality of his situation has just enough time to settle in and make itself at home before Sullivan's thumb follows his spitwad and forces it into Steve's body.

"Hot and tight as a virgin," Sullivan says, and Steve writhes against his grip, tries to pull off Sullivan's thumb even as it spears him open. It feels like he's having an asthma attack, but not quite; he's choking on the taste of his own fear.

"Like you'd know the difference," he spits.

Sullivan snorts, dragging at Steve's hole, and Steve's flushing, can feel the heat of it spreading across his face. He wants to vomit at the catch of Sullivan's calluses against the tender skin of his rim. And he knows it'll only get worse. Sullivan's knees are bracketing his own, keeping him in place, and Steve knows what's coming when Sullivan pulls back. The pull of his zipper is deafening in his good ear.

He grits his teeth. He hears Sullivan spit again. He feels the tension and excitement in the men crowding around him. One of his fingers is crushed beneath Cassidy's kneecap; he can't feel it anymore but for a lance of pain up into his palm. _At least it's not my right hand_ , he thinks idiotically.

The blunt head of Sullivan's cock noses against his ass, and he can't help the way he tightens up. It hits him in a rush: _God, he doesn't want that thing anywhere near him--_

Then Sullivan pushes forward, and Steve lets out a strangled yelp. It's a dry, tugging drag of skin against skin, barely slicked by the spit, and Sullivan presses until Steve feels himself tear. He bites down on his lip; tears sting his eyes. It feels like nothing he can compare it to. Parts of himself, parts he'd never even _known_ about except in a distant, abstract way, are stretched wide around Sullivan's cock and he can't do anything but feel it. He can't imagine it would hurt worse if he ran sandpaper over his ass. He swallows back a sob.

"That's it, faggot, squeeze," Sullivan mutters. "Make it good for me."

"Get the _fuck_ off me!" Steve yells, his voice gone high and strained.

Sullivan pulls out, and Steve's arms buckle. He hovers there for a moment, just the head splitting Steve open. "Nah," he says with a laugh, and shoves back in.

It slides in easier, this time, although it hurts worse. Steve thinks he might be bleeding. Hysterical thoughts of bleeding out around Sullivan's cock rise up in him, and he starts struggling again, trying to pull off, pull _away_ , but it just sends him face-first into Cassidy's crotch, who's blooming hard in his trousers.

"Look at this!" Sullivan crows. "He's doin' all the work for me!"

"You wanna suck me off?" Cassidy asks, sweet as rotten apples. "If you want it that bad I could give it to you. Feed my cock right between those cocksucker lips."

"You put anything in my mouth I'll bite it off," Steve grates out.

Cassidy pats his cheek. "Maybe next time."

"Fuck you!"

A round of laughter follows, and then Sullivan's hips stutter against his; Steve can feel his skin crawling at the bare touch of Sullivan's balls. Sullivan grunts; he gives another two or three stabbing thrusts, then his hands lock tight about Steve's hips.

"Yeah, just like that," he groans, and Steve can feel the way he twitches inside him, the spreading warmth, and he lets out a sickened noise.

"Don't think he liked your load, Sully," one of them says.

Sullivan laughs, softening and slipping out of Steve with a sigh. "Maybe he'll like yours better, Jack."

They swap places faster than Steve can track, still reeling from the knowledge that he's got a load of spunk filling his ass. Jack presses in before he even has time to try fighting him off.

"Shit," Jack breathes. "Tight as Dick's hatband."

Sullivan pats him congenially on the shoulder. "Looks like the little fucker was saving himself up just for us," he says.

Steve bites down on his lips. He's glad as anything that the dry skin-on-skin has eased, but that just lets Jack up the pace, and if he opens his mouth the only thing that'll fall out is a sob.

"Thank Christ he's finally shut up," Jack mutters.

"Dunno," the last guy says. "I kinda liked hearing him sass you, Sullivan."

Steve hears a slap. "You better watch your own mouth, Tucker."

Jack's started into the faster, irregular thrusts that mean he's close, and Steve closes his eyes when he feels him jerk and twitch. He swallows bile at the greedy moan Jack huffs against his shoulders. He squelches a little, when he pulls out. Tucker shifts in to take his place.

Of a mercy, Tucker's stamina is shit. He's thicker though, so by the time he comes Steve's biting back small whimpers. He stares at the street, tracking a line of ants across the pavement.

Then comes Cassidy's turn. He rocks back on his heels, freeing Steve's hands; Steve had had a vague notion of making a break for it, but he crumples in pain instead as sensation rushes back. His fingers are crushed white, except where the wrinkles in Cassidy's trousers pressed red lines into his skin. He can't even flex his fingers. Sullivan takes his place, though he doesn't bother with laying his knees on Steve's hands.

Cassidy's a talker. He's smaller than Tucker, and Steve thinks at first he'll make it home with some shred of dignity intact, but then Cassidy opens his mouth.

"Look at that," he whistles. "You're a mess, Rogers. Bet it hurts now, huh. That hole of yours started tight and pink, but it ain't no more. Look how swollen that is. Damn. You're leaking, son, you're so full you can't even keep it all in."

There's a trail of jizz crawling down Steve's thigh. He's been trying to ignore it, but Cassidy's words just bring it back to his attention.

"You gonna fuck me, or what?" he demands.

"Yeah, yeah, keep your shirt on," Cassidy says, taking his time unbuckling his belt. "You in a rush, or something? Just me and you, sweetheart, and this filthy little hole all stretched and waiting. You gonna clench up for me, Rogers, make it good? Or am I gonna have to hurt you?"

"You're a sick fuck, Cassidy," Jack murmurs.

"I'll remember that, when you want help roughing up your debtors," Cassidy says mildly, and plants a hand on Steve's shoulder to press him into the dirt.

"Wasn't complaining."

Cassidy gives a pleased hum and tucks himself up Steve's ass with an almost delicate thrust. "Good," he says, and Steve isn't sure if he means him or Jack.

He takes forever. Steve would have thought that being the last to go would make him the shortest fuse, but no, Cassidy fucks him like it's a lazy Sunday stroll. Worse, he does it all while keeping up a commentary on the tightness of Steve's ass, and how slick he is, and how he's gonna dirty him up.

"Then fucking do it already, I haven't got all day!" Steve finally snaps, and Sullivan lets out a bark of laughter.

"You heard the man," he says. "You're takin' too damn long, anyhow."

"Didn't know there was a time limit," Cassidy says, but he picks up the pace, and before long he's sighing and coming, and fucking through the mess Steve's leaking out until he's mostly soft. Steve's hands bunch up into fists.

Cassidy pulls out almost reluctantly, with a messy spill of come after, and Steve shudders. He can't decide whether to squeeze himself shut again or to push it all out. He ends up trying to move his hips as little as possible as he forces himself upright. His knees are screaming.

"Thanks, doll," Sullivan says, patting him on the cheek. "You were a real peach."

They saunter down the alley, guffawing and shoving at each other, pride bouncing in their steps. Steve takes deep, slow breaths to settle his rolling stomach. He pulls up his pants with trembling arms and fumbles at the useless buckle. Bucky's coming home soon; he only has a narrow window to get himself sorted. He tosses the halves of his belt aside. Of all the days not to wear suspenders.

He stares down at the roast, sitting forlornly in a stinking puddle. He reaches over, hissing when it pulls on the ache in his ass, and scoops it up. It's soaked. He picks apart the knots, but the paper's soaked through, and the meat spoiled. He sighs and drops it in the nearest trash can. He can probably muster together soup for tonight.

The walk home is almost worse than the line-up. He's not far from his and Bucky's tenement building, and the stabbing, chafing pain in his guts is glad for it, but he feels like every person who passes him by is staring as though they know what he just did. It feels like it's branded on his forehead: _Elmer Sullivan made me his bitch!_

His clothes are dirty, streaked with filthy water, blood, and worse. There's a sick dribble of spunk down his leg, soaking into his underwear and congealing around the hairs on his thighs, tugging at every step. He itches, he smells.

He's limping. There's no way he wouldn't be.

The stairs are agony all on their own, but thank _God_ their landlady Mrs. Ford isn't hovering on the top step like she sometimes does. His hands shake so badly he almost can't get the key in the door.

The air in their apartment is close, filled with the damp heat of summer, and the first thing Steve does after tossing his coat over the foot of his bed is pry open the fire escape windows. There was a faint breeze down on the street; this high up, it might be a little stronger. Then he clicks on the fan perched on the kitchen counter.

He clears off the old stack of this morning's paper and Bucky's breakfast plate from the table and lifts off the board. He nearly drops it, he's arms feel about as strong as wet noodles, but he manages to tilt it to the side without breaking anything important. There's a ring in the tub. He'll need to prod Bucky about that, soon.

He watches the boiling pot of water and tries not to think.

He scrubs himself three times over before he feels even remotely clean. He is thorough: under his nails, behind his ears, in the cracks between his toes. All the places a body sometimes forgets about. He tries to wash off the feeling of their hands on him, tries to scrape away the sound of their laughter from his skin. He reaches careful hands down between his legs; they come away with a small smear of blood. He rinses it off, and then scrubs there, too, as hard as he can stand, and bears down to get as much of their come out of him as possible.

It hurts. It hurts so bad tears squeeze from his eyes, and he sits like a putz snuffling into his bath water. Taking a shit's gonna be hell until he heals up.

He gets out and dries off. Drains the tub, washes away the traces. He goes into his room to dress while it dries out. Bucky'll know something's up; Steve hates taking baths in the heat of the day, because it makes him feel sticker than ever when he climbs out. It can't be helped. He pulls on a clean pair of undershorts and a clean pair of shirts, and then, he reaches for his spare pants, the ones he--the ones he just--just pressed--

Steve stares at them: summer weight worsted wool, dark gray. He got them for a song at the secondhand shop down the road. He swears the air is getting sucked out of the room. It's not asthma, his lungs work _fine_ , but his heart's racing so fast he thinks it might pound right out of his chest. It's not much of a chest at all; it wouldn't have to try very hard.

He sits in his chair (the one with the broken leg, the one he propped up on his old math books, the one with the spring that pokes you in the thigh if you sit in it wrong) and bends over, mindless of his hurts, and lets the world fade in and out around him.

It takes him a while, but he gets a hold of himself. Reins in his breathing, slows his heart. Pushes away what thoughts he can. He stands up, finishes dressing, and goes into the kitchen. Dinner won't make itself.

Bucky eyes his bruises that night, the scuffs on his knuckles, but he doesn't say a thing. Nothing new, seeing Steve Rogers beat up after a fight. Nothing new.

"Thought you hated those suspenders," he says over dinner. "What happened to your belt?"

Steve freezes for a heartbeat. "Got it caught on the edge of a mat cutter," he finally says. "Tore the leather."

Bucky hums thoughtfully around his spoon. "Saw one at Simon's the other day, might fit you. Want me to check and see?"

"Could you?" Steve asks, relieved beyond telling. It's a long walk down the street to the secondhand store, and Simon's Used Goods is even farther.

"Forget about it," Bucky says expansively, leaning back in his chair like the mob boss they saw at the movies last week.

Steve gives him a wry grin, softening at the edges despite the day he's had. Bucky has a way of doing that.

He runs into Louisa the next morning on the way to work. He's--he's not angry, exactly. You can't expect a woman to hold up in a fight against four men. But he feels a little betrayed, is all. He straightens from his hunch and meets her gaze square.

She doesn't falter. "I never said thank you," she said. She holds out a little tin of ointment. It's green, with red flowers over the lid. "This'll help. With the pain. And you'll heal faster."

Steve stiffens. "I don't need your pity," he says.

She stares at him, utterly taken aback, the can still outstretched. "It's not pity," she says.

"Well, whatever it is. Charity. Your help. I don't need it." He brushes past her, his face flaming. He'd only just managed to forget the weight of Sullivan's dick in his ass, and here she is, trying to Nurse Nightingale him and bringing it all back! He walks away as fast as his hitching steps will let him.

"Steve Rogers," she shouts after him, "if you ever have to swallow your pride I hope you choke on it!"

He ducks his head between his shoulders, balls his fists in his pockets, and hurries to work.

His penmanship is sloppier than usual. He doesn't think Cassidy broke anything, but his hands are stiff, and they ache. It's not the only thing that does. He wishes, possibly for the first time, that he could stand on the job, because the room Malcolm Doyle has set aside for his accountant and bookkeeper is furnished with the hardest, meanest chair Steve's ever had the misfortune to sit on. It's not easy on a regular day--he's got a skinny ass, after all--but now? It's absolute hell.

Doyle comes in around nine, as is usual, and makes the morning rounds. Steve can hear his booming voice all through the showroom floor and workshop. "The girls tell me you got in another fight!" he announces when he comes in to see Steve. "What's this! Bloody knuckles?"

Steve winces. "Sorry, sir," he says, and gestures to the wobbly figures looping across the books. "Think you might have given me that raise too soon."

Doyle gives him a long look. "Ah," he says, waving a meaty hand. "Forget about it, kid. Looks like you had a rough day; can't be perfect all the time, or we'd be out of a job!" He claps Steve on the shoulder, and Steve does his best to hide his grimace. "Just don't hurt those hands too bad." He clomps out of the room, and Steve stares at the page before him.

He allows himself one deep breath, then sits himself square in that chair, ignores the aches in his fingers, and forces his handwriting to stay as steady as it's always been. It's a long day.

Doyle shakes his head at him at the end of it, but he doesn't comment more than a farewell as he accepts the books.

Bucky, though, he's the worst part. He comes in, sooty from the machinery and sweaty with a hard day's work, and he sees that Steve's limping a little.

It's nothing new. Steve's got a bad back; sometimes the muscles spasm, and he can't walk for the pains they send shooting down his legs. Bucky knows the drill. He's barely even aware he does it, Steve thinks--he walks past Steve to the sink, and on the way he digs his knuckle into the knot under Steve's shoulder blade.

It lurches him forward--he wasn't braced for it, wasn't even thinking about his back--and suddenly Cassidy's behind him, shoving his face to the ground. He can smell the baking-heat stench of rotten garbage and Tucker's cheap cologne. He gasps for breath.

"Better?" Bucky asks, focused on pouring a glass of water.

"Y-yeah," Steve says, and hides the way he moves away from Bucky's hand by checking on the pot pie he's got in the oven. It's Bucky's ma's recipe. Bucky's smile had been beatific when Steve gave him the grocery list.

Now, it's eager. "Is it ready yet?" he asks, bending low to peer over Steve's shoulder. Steve shudders.

"Not yet, you lug," he says, trying for affectionate and probably falling closer to snappish.

Bucky just grins at him. "What'd I do to deserve this?" he says, spreading his arms wide to take in their slice of nothing. "A wife who cooks for me--"

"A dirty ape to clean up after," Steve mutters, taking up a dishrag to scrub at the counter.

"An apartment I can see a slice of the River from--"

"And the garbage shaft, don't forget that."

"God, Steve, I'm livin' the life."

Steve gives him a flat look. "Take a bath," he says. "And clean it when you're done."

"Aw, Steve..."

"Do it," Steve says. "There's a ring in it two inches wide."

Bucky hams it up all through filling the tub, giving Steve sad-puppy eyes until Steve flings the dishcloth at his face. "It's all your fault anyhow," Steve says behind a laugh. "You're filthy."

"You like it when I'm filthy," Bucky says, leaning up against the counter with a rakish grin and his dirty undershirt.

Steve's breath hitches for a moment, but he rolls his eyes. "Save it for your girls, Casanova."

"C'mon, don't be like that, doll," Bucky says, and it. Steve just.

" _Don't call me that_ ," he barks. He's gone rigid, and Bucky's slack with shock. Steve feels himself blush. He looks down at the sink. "Just don't."

"Okay," Bucky says, and he's not trying to look like a kicked puppy now, but it happens anyway. Steve swallows past the knot in his throat. Bucky is the sweetest person he knows; he didn't deserve that, no matter what Steve's gone and done in a back alley.

He takes his bath, and dutifully scrubs it out after, and by the time their dinner is done Bucky's managed to haul Steve's mood back into somewhere in the ballpark of cheerful. He smiles at least, when he watches Bucky go after his third helping of pie, his hair carefully slicked back for the revelry to come.

Bucky's a dancer. Mostly the Lindy Hop, but Steve's seen him do a mean Jitterbug on the occasions he let Bucky drag him along. He doesn't have a partner yet, but he doesn't mind hopping from girl to girl. Steve snorts to himself. If ever there was a metaphor for Bucky Barnes, that one's it.

Then he's out and about, and Steve's alone again in their apartment. He flops on his bed to read Doc Savage.

The days wear on through June, and Steve no longer has to shove his fist in his mouth when he's on the john to keep from yelling. He hasn't seen hide nor hair of Sullivan, or any of his crew; he thinks maybe that's it. Maybe they've balanced the scales between them, that they're square.

Except three weeks after that day in the alley he's walking home from work, and he _knows_ this set-up: he saw this set-up around Louisa, only this time _he's_ the prey.

Something's blooming, and Steve's heavy-headed with hayfever. He stops right there in the street and takes a deep breath, pressing down the urge to sneeze. He spins to face them. "Didn't get enough the last time?" he says. He stares Sullivan down, his heart pounding in his chest.

There's a blink of surprise across Sullivan's craggy face, then it curls down into a familiar cruel smile. "I was just about to ask _you_ that," he says. "We got a nice alley all picked out an' everything."

Steve clenches his hands. He recognizes the original crew--Cassidy has Sullivan's back, and Tucker and Jack are across the street. The other two are new. Steve sees his mistake immediately: Tucker, the burliest of them after Sullivan, is already crossing, dodging a cab to cut off his way forward. He grits his teeth and turns back to Sullivan. "I'm not a fairy," he says. "I won't bend over for you."

"We'll make a fairy out of you, yet," Cassidy replies, his soft voice sending a quiver down Steve's spine. He straightens as much as he can.

Steve is tired. He didn't sleep last night for sneezing, and his lungs feel like they're filled with wet sand. It's difficult just keeping his head upright, and the walk home has never looked longer. He stiffens his legs and squares his jaw. "Better come back with a few more guys, then," he says, and he almost winces, but Sullivan's frustrated face makes it worth it.

Until a heavy blow knocks him sideways into the wall.

Like sharks scenting blood the rest of the gang appear, forming a loose circle around Steve. He blinks blearily from swollen eyes and puts up his fists. "Let's get this over with," he says.

One of the new guys looks taken aback, but the others pile in. They're in a public street, so it's nothing too serious--although once they get him down Steve does start to worry about his ribs, the way they're kicking them. He grits his teeth to keep from yelling. Through the thicket of their legs he sees other people walking by as though nothing is happening, as though the beating he's getting is invisible. A flicker of anger sparks, but it gutters beneath the weight of his pain and exhaustion.

He loses track of time. A kick to his head sends him reeling, and he feels hands yanking on his arms. It makes his shoulders ache. The loll of his head constricts his throat; he gasps for breath. He can feel his shoes scraping against pavement. They toss him down on an old pile of rotting newspapers, and when they yank down his pants he has just enough left in him to moan unhappily--but that's about it. 

It almost goes by quicker, for all that the line is longer. Steve knows what to expect, this time. They drag him up to his knees, and hold him steady when he sags. He thinks he hears laughter, but it's all surging tide in his ears; a cock bumps at his back door, and his breath catches. Tears prick his eyes long before the pain starts. He tries not to clench up.

He can hear flies buzzing over a dog turd by the wall; then he can't. The print in front of his nose drones on about the virtues of U.S. isolationism; then his eyes blur, and he can't see it anymore. Reflexive tears slip down his cheeks, and a hand wipes them off almost tenderly.

He considers staying on that sun-warm stack of papers when they're done, just letting himself sleep and rot in peace, but he forces himself back up. He pulls up his pants, buckles his belt, pushes his hair out of his eyes.

He thinks he'll make stew. Stew's easy.

Bucky insists on cleaning out his scrapes that night, even though Steve did it himself not three hours ago.

"Shut up and let me look at it," he snaps, pushing Steve back to sit on the rim of the bathtub.

Steve's not proud of the way he hollers. He's even less proud of the way he's making Bucky worry. And he knows his tongue gets sharp when he's not watching it, but it falls out all the same:

"It's none of your damn business."

He hides in his room, curling on his bed to keep from hurting himself more, and wonders why Bucky's hands on his skin feels so different from Elmer Sullivan's.

The next afternoon, he slips into the druggist's for a can of Bag Balm. He tries not to look guilty as he pays, but he blushes anyway. He hides the can in his pocket on the walk home. He spreads it everywhere it hurts, from the scrapes over his knuckles to the lacerations on his chest where they kicked him. And he carefully, hissing at the sting, smears it between his legs. He's red as a tomato when he looks at himself in the mirror. He washes his hands, stows the can with the rest of his toiletries, and gets on with making dinner.

It helps.

The day after that is a Saturday, and he goes to find where Louisa Rutkowski lives. In a women's boarding house, he discovers, down on Currey Road. He buys the best flowers he can afford and limps over to see her. The matron gives him a stern, assessing look.

"Why are you visiting?" she asks.

"She helped me out," Steve replies without thinking. His eyes widen at her unimpressed expression. "Not like that! I mean, she did a favor for me--tried to, I kind of didn't let her, at first--" He cuts himself off. He wishes he weren't such an easy blusher. "I got her out of a pickle with a street gang, and she. I just wanted to see her, is all. Make sure she's doing okay."

The matron looks him up and down, taking in his skinny build and red, watering eyes--he doesn't think the flowers agree with him. There's not much to like, looking the way he does, but it does make it easier to go upstairs at a boarding house. No girl would want him. She lets him up.

Louisa lives on the fourth floor. Steve knows better than to try hiding his wheeze on the stairs, but every giggle, every side-eyed glance, every incredulous, lingering look from his feet to his face, is almost worse than chest pains and a flop sweat. He keeps his head down and trudges up the stairs.

Louisa's eyes widen when she sees him. She's standing in the door, her hair in perfect pin curls and her day dress neatly ironed. "Steve," she says.

"I'm sorry." The words spill out of him before he thinks about it, and he's glad--it would've been a lot harder to say if they hadn't.

She stares at him for a moment, at the flowers, at the fresh bruises and scrapes, at the careful way he's holding himself. She opens the door wider. "You should come in."

He stands awkwardly in her parlor as she bustles the flowers into a mason jar. "Lovely," she says, setting them atop the sideboard. "Thank you, Steve."

He ducks his head. "Least I could do."

"Would you care to sit? Anything to drink? I think I have some lemonade."

"Lemonade would be great," Steve says. "And I'd. Rather stand. If you don't mind."

There's a beat of silence, and Steve hazards a glance up. Louisa's face is shrewd. "Still?" she asks softly.

Steve shifts uncomfortably, bunching his hands in his pockets. He doesn't want to talk about it, but Louisa knows and seems not to care; if anyone's safe, it's her. He clears his throat. "More like again." 

She nods slowly, and retreats into the kitchen. He's pathetically grateful for even that shred of distance. "I still have that can, if you want it," she calls back over the rising note of filling glasses.

Steve wishes he could fall through the floor. "I, uh. I got my own. I get into a lot of fights. Might come in handy."

"It keeps your hands soft," Louisa says, returning with a flower-speckled glass. "I use it for that, too."

He looks up at her, startled; she nods sadly. "I step out with who I like, when I like," she says. "Not everyone agrees with that, and some think it's an open invitation."

"That's not right," Steve says firmly. "Your business isn't anyone else's."

"Really?" Louisa asks with a raised brow.

"You helped out my ma." He shrugs awkwardly. "That's all that matters to me."

She smiles faintly. "You're one of a kind, Steve Rogers," she says. Then she sobers. "They've got you marked. I'm sorry to say there's not much you can do until they get bored."

Steve rolls the glass between his palms. He can smell the bright snap of lemons, and his mouth waters. "How long did it take for you?"

"Long enough," she answers, taking a delicate sip. "You don't mind if _I_ sit down, do you?"

He shakes his head and takes a sip of his own. They chat until the lemonade runs out, and then Steve's out the door. He's got a drawing of the Manhattan Bridge he'd like to work on, and Louisa's nice, but he'd rather be gone.

The third time is different. They don't haul him into an alley, and it's not on his way home from work. Instead, Steve's walking back from the cemetery, and he's so far in his head he doesn't notice they're tailing him until a hand clamps down over his mouth and yanks him sideways. He recognizes the stinking-fish smell coating Jack's skin. He's hauled into the back hallway of a saloon--Steve can hear the distant clatter of glasses and conversation--then into a back room, rented and signed off for however long Sullivan deems necessary.

There's seven guys, this time. Steve tries not to count them, but he has ample time to take a census when they're fucking him into the ratty mattress. He hates to admit it, but the whole thing is almost becoming mundane. He grits his teeth and waits for them to wear themselves out.

Except--there's one man. This one, weasel-faced man, standing in the corner until the rest have had their way. Steve sizes him up. It doesn't seem like he's part of Sullivan's crew; he stands aside, and he hadn't joined in any of the banter shot back and forth over his head. Even Cassidy's finally shut up, and now it's just this last one, quiet and watchful. The hairs rise up on the back of Steve's neck.

When he pushes in, it's perfunctory. He makes no noises, he doesn't run his mouth. He works in and out until he builds up a solid rhythm, and then he starts changing the angle of his thrusts, jabbing in and around Steve's already oversensitive innards until Steve's forced to bite his lip to keep from yelling. The man gives one particularly heavy stroke, and--

The echo of his own cry is ugly in Steve's ears. He wants nothing more than to shrivel away into the threadbare sheets scratching at his palms, because whatever the man hit, it felt _good_.

The man hits it again, and white heat settles right behind Steve's dick. His mouth drops open despite himself, because--while the fucking still hurts--warmth is pooling in his joints, and God help him, but his cock is standing up to attention. He tries to push the pleasure back, to focus on the bitter chafe, but there's not much of a chafe anymore, now that six other guys have used him. He's slick as a girl. If anything, the sting that's left just makes it better.

"Is he--he is! The little pervert's getting off on it!"

Steve can't pinpoint the voice, but a surge of anger cuts through the shock. They can fuck him, but they can't have _this_.

He fights dirty. Bites, hits with his bony elbows, goes for the balls when he can. He gets a couple down, but there's still Sullivan and four other men happy to pile down on him. He ends up on his knees bent over the side of the bed. The sheets smell musty, like they've been in some back closet for several months. Someone's hand is on the back of his head, pressing him in face-first; Steve fights, but his lungs are burning. His limbs fail him, and then the weasel-faced man is back, humping into him until he finds that _fucking_ spot again. Steve shivers beneath the weight of all the hands pressing him down. Words are stuck in his throat, trapped behind the wail that wants to come out, instead. Pleasure builds, his cock hardening despite himself, and it seems the more panicked he gets the harder he grows. Tears leak from his squeezed-shut eyes, soaking a wet patch into the mattress.

He comes with a whimper, his body shuddering beneath the crush of sensation and emotion, and Steve wants to die. Through the haze of pleasure and horror he feels the man give a few more thrusts and still against him.

"Looks like it only took seven guys to make you a fairy, Rogers," Sullivan says soft in his ear, and Steve's throat spasms. He hears a hand clap on someone's shoulder. "Good work, Malone. You want in again, you let us know."

They leave him in the room, and Steve slumps back on his heels. Maybe he really is a fairy. They like it up the ass, don't they? Steve can't really say he doesn't, anymore, not when he came like a freight train while taking a cock.

He manages to get himself put together enough to stagger out of that room, out into the back alley, before he collapses again. He stares at bare brick for what feels like hours. He thinks he does throw up at some point; at least, he notices a puddle of vomit next to him that wasn't there before, and the taste of bile burns the back of his throat.

It's dark when he drags himself back to the present. He pushes himself upright; Bucky'll be waiting. Worrying, probably, though he'll try not to be obvious about it. He loves that about Bucky.

He may as well admit it, now. He's a faggot; he can admit it if he loves his best friend.

Bucky is in their apartment when he gets home. He's leaning his hip against the kitchen counter, his face creased in a scowl of worry. There's fury in his expression when Steve meets his eye, but also crushing fear. "Steve," he breathes, and the anger bleeds away. "What happened!"

He's across the room so quickly Steve startles sideways into the wall. Bucky's in his undershirt, his hair mussed over his forehead and rank with the smell of sweat and a hard day's labor. Steve feels himself settling, because unlike Sullivan and his crew, Bucky smells honest and safe. He stinks to high heaven, but he stinks like home.

"Nothing," Steve grunts. _Don't look at me, Bucky. Don't touch me. You're sweet and good, you're the only good thing I have left. Please, don't pry_.

"Bullshit! What's going on, Steve?"

Steve stares at Bucky's scuffed-up work boots. _Had to happen sooner or later_. "Clear off the tub, would you? I need to take a bath."

Bucky stares at him a little longer; Steve can feel it like a weight against his skin. His fists clench at his sides. He hears the huff of Bucky's breath, listens to the creak of the floorboards as he moves off. Steve sneaks a glance up through his lashes; Bucky's arms are bare, corded from hard factory work. There's a fatalistic bent to Steve's thoughts: what does it matter if he looks, now? He shot off while getting fucked. If that doesn't make him a filthy pervert he doesn't know what else could.

There's something clean in watching Bucky's nervous fluttering, though. It feels miles away from getting fucked by Sullivan. Or Malone.

He kicks off his shoes and plucks at his buttons while Bucky pours water. His hands ache: his knuckles don't take the gangbangs any better than his ass. He swallows back his wincing, but when he gets to his undershirt he can't stifle his soft grunt of pain.

Bucky looks up at him, holding a pot of steaming water over the tub.

"Could use a little help," Steve says. He feels like he's choking on the words.

A tangled knot of expressions flickers across Bucky's face. Steve can't bring himself to parse them. Bucky's an open book; Steve doesn't want to see his face for this. Bucky dumps the water and comes over.

His hands are gentle against Steve's skin. They're warm, slightly roughened; Steve shivers. Bucky pulls the sweaty undershirt over Steve's head, then eases it down his shoulders. Steve bites back his whimper. He unbuckles his pants as Bucky lobs it in the corner.

Steve would give anything not to need Bucky's help for this, but he's stiffening up, and he can barely stand, let alone pull down his own pants. Bucky keeps his eyes to himself, thank God; Steve feels red enough for the both of them, flickers of shame spiking through his chest. Except, once Steve pants are on the pile with the rest of his clothes, Bucky looks back to him--and Steve can see it, can see the exact moment when, looking at the mess soaking through his shorts, the penny drops.

Bucky goes white. He stares at Steve's damp legs until Steve's skin starts to prickle and he crosses his arms over his skinny chest. Bucky looks up at him, his blue eyes wide and pleading.

"Help me get 'em off," Steve says, and unfolds from around himself long enough to pluck at the waistband. Bucky does, blinking fast and looking nauseated, and when he takes Steve's arm to help him in the tub, his hands are shaking.

He pours potful after potful of water, and Steve watches the blood rise up between his legs. He doesn't know what to say. There aren't words for this.

Bucky stares at the filling pot in the sink. "Just tell me who," he says, his voice low and ragged.

"Doesn't matter," Steve replies. He fights to keep his tone level, to hide the exhaustion he feels.

"Yes, it Goddamn _does_!" Bucky's voice slices through the tension. He scrubs his hand through his hair. "It _does_ ," he says again.

They stare at each other for minutes, until Steve finally looks away. "Could I get a little privacy?" He breathes a silent prayer of relief when Bucky sweeps from the room. He starts scrubbing, and he pretends it doesn't hurt like fuck to hear Bucky's hitching breaths behind his bedroom door.

They fight. The less Steve thinks of it the better, because if he never has to see Bucky's face crumple the way it does when he shatters that plate, Steve will sleep better at night. He beats a strategic retreat. He knows Bucky's thinking about George, but he can't help it--he can't look at him any longer, it's too close to home. He hasn't taken Communion in over a month because he won't Confess this, and he's never been gladder that Bucky wasn't Catholic until now.

For a whole week after, Bucky hovers. At least, he hovers as much as he can--the factory starts earlier and ends later than Steve's work at the framer's, and Steve refuses to let him try. Every evening when he comes home it's not with a smile but with a tight, worried frown and a dozen fretful questions over Steve's health.

"Enough!" Steve finally shouts. "If you ask me again I'm gonna sock you in the face!"

Bucky looks like he sucked on a lemon, but he backs off.

Weeks pass. Steve doesn't see a hint of Sullivan, and he starts to think maybe the gang's gotten tired of him, like Louisa said. He starts to walk a little easier on the way home, starts to breathe against the constriction in his chest whenever he passes an alley entrance. Mr. Doyle is jovial and benevolent, and Steve finally gets that damned roast, and Bucky, who couldn't boil water without melting the pan, is through the roof for it.

That tight, worried look is easing off his face, too. Steve counts that a win.

By midway through August it looks as though Steve's gotten away scott-free. Bucky's got a date one Thursday night, so Steve helps him with his bathwater, and he's feeling light in a way he hasn't in over two months.

"Make sure you get that spot beneath your chin," he says, pointing. "You know, the one you always miss--"

"Oh, come on," Bucky says, hunching his shoulders and sinking lower beneath the water. "Like you've never missed a spot."

"Not like you, I don't," Steve says. "I swear, you looked like you'd lost a round with a lawnmower."

"Well, maybe _you_ should shave me, if I'm so bad at it." It's a backhanded, careless comment; he can't mean anything by it, except perhaps to get Steve to shut up so he can blush in peace.

But Steve--there's something wild and dark and slightly reckless that jumps up and grabs him by the throat when he says, "Sure, Buck, I can shave you." He stares back at Bucky, surprised at himself, then rushes out, "Gotta save you from yourself, after all." Bucky stares as Steve grabs up the soap and razor and starts stropping the blade.

"You don't--" he says weakly, but Steve cuts him off.

"Shut up, Barnes. And sit up." He doesn't know what he's doing, but neither does he want to stop. He never would have done this before, not ever--but he's a fairy, right? Doesn't matter, now. He scrubs the brush through the soap and swipes it across Bucky's cheek.

And, Jesus God, running the blade over Bucky's skin, watching him bare his neck and seeing the demure way he won't meet Steve's eye, it's--it's not what he signed up for, is what it is. He's getting hard in his slacks, and Steve had thought if he never got it up again he'd be glad--except that it's the clean-soap smell of his best friend, and the shadow of Bucky's lashes across his cheek, and the flutter of blue when he glances up at Steve that are doing it. He wipes foam and stubble off on the back of his thumb and puts his fingers back against the soft skin beneath Bucky's jaw.

"Pull in your upper lip," he says, and Bucky does. Steve eases the razor beneath his nose.

The world doesn't make sense, anymore.

When Bucky gets out of the tub, he's red-faced and quiet, and he's got a hard-on too, Steve sees it because there's no way to hide it, really. He doesn't know what to do. So he makes some crack he forgets about and disappears in his room, and his brain torments him with images of Bucky's erection--cut, flushed, shiny-wet. It only gets worse when he imagines _tasting_ it. Getting right down there on his knees and putting it in his mouth, and hell. Why not add cocksucking to his repertoire?

Naturally the day after would be the day Sullivan decided he needed to rough Steve up, again.

He sighs when they start herding him down the alley. "Really?" he asks. "You don't have anything better to do with your time?"

"Always got time for doin' you," Tucker sasses back, pushing him around the corner.

There's a full line-up waiting. So many guys are leaned up against the wall--smoking, shifting uneasily, shooting the shit--that it smears into _too_ many. Steve couldn't speak if he tried.

"Sent the word out," Sullivan says. "Anyone wants an easy fuck, talk to me." He leans close. "You got a lot of people out there who hate you, Rogers."

He recognizes a couple, too--there's Spinelli, from down by Prospect Park, and Knudsen, from the 13th Street gang. He _knows_ the Italians hate the Norwegians, and he's pretty sure they return the favor, and it chills him right down to the bone, knowing that hating him brought them together. At first he just stares--a deer caught in the headlights--until he sees Malone, and that's it, he's fighting. It's the panicked scuffle of a trapped animal. He pulls hair, he scratches, he's not playing fair, no sir. Queensbury didn't say a damn thing about this in his rule book, and Steve's not keeping to gentlemanly behavior when they're not, either. They get him down over a pack of shipping pallets, right behind the hardware store, and Steve would laugh if he weren't panicking just like that first time.

Sullivan's the first one to go, as always. He has a thing about wrecking pretty virgin asses, Steve's learned; he likes the blood he can make by tearing Steve open, and he never bothers much with much prep. Only this time, he sets out a jar of Vaseline on the planks by Steve's head. "Gonna go a little easier on you, today," he says. "Got a lotta guys gonna go after me, and I want you good for a second round." His chuckle is sickening. He dips his fingers and shoves them in.

Steve's glad for the slick, even if it is just to keep him from getting fucked to death by the stack of assholes behind him. Sullivan isn't any more gentle, just a little more slippery, but it hurts orders of magnitude less. Steve keeps his eyes on the weathered wood below him so he won't look down the row.

Then it's the next guy, and the next. Steve forces himself to settle, to think strategically--how's he gonna get out of this?

It all goes to shit when Sullivan brings a new taker into the alley.

"Gonna take your turn with your fairy roommate, Barnes?"

Steve jerks his head up, slack-jawed and wide-eyed with dawning horror. Christ Jesus, it's _Bucky_. God, Steve wants to cry. Not Bucky. Please. But then Bucky's throwing punches, shouting and tackling and--Steve feels a moment of hope, even caught as he is between a stranger's cock and a hard place. He tries to get out and watch his back, but he's _too fucking small_ , too _weak_ , he's no fucking use, he just gets slapped across the head while Bucky goes down under too many guys.

The knife they put at his throat makes Steve's heart stop.

Steve can't move for the hands holding him down, so he uses the only weapon he has left: he sasses Sullivan. _Don't look at Bucky, don't use him up the way I've been, don't smear up that sweetness_. Bucky's staring at him, shocked and white-faced and scared, but Sullivan's not paying him any attention anymore, so Steve counts that a win.

"Shut the fuck up!" Sullivan yells.

"Make me, you limp-wristed asshole!"

He thinks he's done it. Thinks he's won back some small fraction of the hurt Sullivan owes him, calling him a pussy and a cocksucker. But he could never have predicted the way Sullivan drags him up by the arm and throws him to his knees at Bucky's feet.

Sullivan's piggy eyes are sharp and angry. "Get to it, _cocksucker_. Unless you want to see what his insides look like on the outside."

He and Bucky stare at each other for endless heartbeats, and Steve makes up his mind.

"You don't--Steve, no--" Bucky's eyes are wide, and the mean part of Steve thinks it's kind of pathetic the way he's pinned between two goons with a blade denting his neck, with his pants gaping open and his cock drooping out between his shirttails. God, Steve wouldn't have wished this on him for anything.

Then Sullivan's hand is driving him face-first into Bucky's dick. It's soft against Steve's cheek, the skin velvety-warm, and the crinkle of hair at the base smells of sweat and musk. Steve lets out a shaky breath.

He doesn't want to. Not here. But... if it keeps Bucky from going through what he did, he'll do it. He'll suck his cock. Doesn't matter, by now, anyway; he's already taken it up the ass more times than he can count, his reputation is screwed half to hell already. So he starts sucking.

It's strange, feeling him harden up in his mouth, feeling him go from soft and small to thick and pulsing with Bucky's racing heartbeat. Bucky's breath is ragged in his ears. Steve laps his tongue experimentally over the head, and Bucky shudders, his hips jerking forward, and Steve has to fight back on his gag reflex.

"Oh, God," Bucky whispers.

Steve's hyper-aware of every part of him: his scent, the silky texture of his skin, the salt-sweat taste of him. The trembling in his thighs, the way his balls pull up tight to his body the longer Steve sucks. And Steve, fuck him, he think he just might love it. He's got spunk dripping down his leg, but _God_ , Bucky's cock on his tongue is ambrosia, it's asylum from the hell around him. He closes his eyes and sucks harder, and that helpless, broken noise Bucky makes before bitter come fills Steve's mouth--he's dazed on that sound, even as he chokes on Bucky's jizz.

The rest blurs. The taste of Bucky lingers on his lips, and he's--he's out to sea. He sucked off his best friend and _liked_ it, and now he's getting pounded until splinters shove under his skin from the shipping pallets he's bent over. It goes on forever, and it doesn't get easier, because there's always another cock.

He tries to let himself sink away from the humiliation and pain until there's nothing--but then the newest guy pushes in, and he recognizes that steady, clinical prodding. Steve wants to die. He wants to die, because Malone is fucking him, and Bucky's going to see him come on a cock like a Goddamn whore. He starts _fighting_ , because there's no way he's taking that lying down. He bucks and punches as hard as he can, and to his shame it's not very hard at all--but Steve will die fighting before he makes Bucky watch him soil himself.

He should have known better, by now.

He's smacked back down and his face mashed against rough wood until his teeth cut the inside of his cheek and blood fills his mouth. Slow, sickly pleasure ripples through his groin, ratcheting higher with each thrust until Steve does something he hasn't since his ma died: he gives up. He gives in to that black despair and stops fighting. His head hurts, he can barely see straight without the world spinning, and his body's clenching around Malone's cock with the aftershocks of his orgasm. His eyes burn.

Then Malone is gone. Steve gasps at the void in his ass, so surprised he clenches down before he can stop himself. But then the hands holding him down are gone, too, and there's not another cock lining up against him. He drops. He lets himself fall to the street, because--oh, Bucky, no--

He tries to speak, tries to tell Bucky not to do that for him, but he's exhausted. He curls up beside the evidence of his shame, because who cares, anymore? He may as well own up to it. He listens to them all shuffle out of the alley, and he's sick to his stomach.

There's a moment of silence, a faint hope that Bucky left with them, too, but then he hears a clatter, and Bucky's there on his knees (God, those stains will never come out).

"Steve, Stevie," he hears. " _Fuck_."

Maybe if he ignores him he'll go away. Steve just wants Bucky to leave, to take his good heart somewhere it's deserved, because it ain't here. But Bucky's a stubborn shit, always has been, and he won't leave, he won't leave. Steve tries to pull up his own pants, but _of fucking course_ he can't. Of all times he can't manage it's the one time Bucky fucking Barnes is there to see. He sags against Bucky and gets his pants hauled up for him like a child, and if he were less spent he'd fucking cry.

"That's it," Bucky says to him, his voice thready. "I've got you."

They wobble home, one foot in front of the other. It's that indeterminate hour, after people have gotten home but before they've stepped out again for the evening, and it's just dark enough that, when Steve staggers sideways against the hitch in his git 'em up, it just looks like he's drunk, not reamed to hell and back. Bucky is there the whole way, his hands steady against his shoulders.

It's only once they're standing in front of their door that Bucky's steady hands falter. He tries four times to get the key in the lock before Steve gently takes them from his trembling fingers. He slides the blade home on the first go. The look Bucky gives him--he looks wrecked. His eyes are red-rimmed in the way they get when Bucky's trying not to cry.

The apartment is exactly the way they left it that morning. Bucky's socks in the corner, Steve's newspapers folded neatly on top of the overflowing trash can. _Need to get on Bucky about that_ , Steve thinks. Bucky, meanwhile, is staring at the bathtub the way Steve remembers seeing soldiers from the War do, back when his ma took him 'round to the Brooklyn Hospital because he was young and his cough wouldn't stop.

"You should go first," Bucky says, and Steve pins him with an incredulous look.

"What, and you'd go after and wash off in the filth I leave behind?"

Bucky flushes, because of course he does, he hasn't had a dozen different dicks shoved up his ass. "Thought you might want it more," he says.

Steve just goes into his room. He can't face bathing with Bucky looking in, he just can't. Not again. He'll do it in the morning.

He listens to the noises of Bucky heating water, of him getting in the tub and scrubbing down, and it's so familiar he can almost forget that he's laying on his stomach because his ass is torn apart, can almost ignore the reek of come on his skin. He'll have to soak his sheets in the morning. It's a Saturday; he'll have time.

Bucky's gone at work, so Steve lingers over his bath. Shaves himself and has a mingled recollection of shaving Bucky and seeing Bucky with a knife at his neck. He forces himself through it. He soaks his sheets in the tub, scrubs them out, hangs them out to dry on the fire escape. Does the same for his pants. Doodles a little, listens to the radio some. He knows Bucky'll want to talk. He considers being out when he gets home, but the ache in his ass dissuades him. He doesn't even bother shutting the curtain, so when Bucky gets in, he's in his chair, failing to read the latest western.

Bucky's quiet. He goes in his room and shucks off his work clothes; he pours water. Steve is stiff in his chair. Saturdays they go out to the automat down the street, just them. A celebration for making it through the workweek. Steve doesn't know if that'll stick, now. He's fucked it up.

Bucky washes away the smell of smoke and grease and dresses in his walking-around slacks and shirt, puts on his vest, though he leaves off the jacket, for now. He leans in the doorway, his arms crossed over his chest. He hasn't put pomade in his hair, yet; it's drying in odd tufts. Steve likes this look on Bucky more than the slick smile he wears when he's on the town; he's softer this way. This is a Bucky only he gets to see. He's ashamed of himself almost immediately.

"We ever gonna talk about this?" Bucky asks.

Steve studies his book. "Nothing to talk about."

"Are--are you serious?" Bucky moves to stand in front of him. Steve looks up, only to face Bucky's belt-buckle head-on. He blushes furiously, and then Bucky's over on his bed, his face just as red. He clears his throat. "Kinda proves my point," he says.

"What, that I'm a fairy?"

"You're not a _fairy_ ," Bucky says. "That--that wasn't something you wanted--"

"You sure about that?" Steve snaps. "Looked to me like I enjoyed it a hell of a lot!"

And Bucky goes white. He can't meet Steve's gaze. He stares down at his knees, his hair starting to curl around his ears without the weight of pomade to hold it straight, and Steve says gently, "You should move out while you can. Before I bring you down."

Bucky's head comes up sharply, his eyes bright and furious. "Don't you ever say that to me again, do you understand, Steven Rogers?" He stands, almost looming over Steve even from across the room. "Don't you fucking _ever_ \--" he cuts himself off, seeming to curl inwards. He folds his hands under his arms.

Steve stands slowly. He remembers when they were younger, how Bucky would stay at his and his ma's cramped little apartment until it was dark outside, putting off going home as long as he could. He never asked why, not once, but Sarah had always let him stay as long as he wanted. He remembers the bruises on Bucky's face--Bucky, who wouldn't have picked a fight if Steve hadn't picked it first. He remembers that Bucky's father hadn't come home right from the war, had started hitting the bottle hard. He's noticed how Bucky never drinks a drop, not even beer, let alone the gutrot Mr. Barnes drank like water.

There was a night, back when Bucky had moved out of his parents' apartment, when he _had_ touched liquor--had touched damn near a whole liquor store's worth--and he leaned on Steve heavily that night, reeking and trembling, and he told Steve he was glad to be away from that son of a bitch--but Steve, I'm scared, what if I'm just like him?

He's seen how tender Bucky is with kids, as though trying to prove it to himself that he's not his father.

All this goes through Steve's mind as he steps closer and lays a hand on his arm. There's something building between them, he can feel it filling up the air between them like a charge of electricity. Bucky's skin is still bath-warm beneath the thin cotton of his shirt. "You're not him," he says.

Bucky's eyes are red-rimmed when he looks up at him. "You can't know that," he says. "Ma said the same, said that he, he'd changed."

It's a reach, but Steve goes up on his tiptoes and pulls Bucky down to him, pressing their foreheads together. "You're fine, Bucky, nothing's gonna happen to you."

A shudder wracks through Bucky's hunched frame. "I should be sayin' that to you," he says. 

Steve shrugs carefully, leaning back. "I'm fine," he says.

"No, you're not," Bucky says, and there's new resolve in his voice. "You got hit by a line-up, Steve. I'm not letting you hide from this."

"What, the way you hide from your father?" Steve knows it's a low blow as soon as the words come out. He squares his jaw. If Bucky goes for him, he won't try and stop him.

Bucky doesn't, though. He just stands there, sad-eyed, making Steve feel every inch the piece of shit he is. He turns away with a sigh, and he's out the door before Steve gets the chance to apologize. The slam of the door behind him is deafening.

Their apartment is inarguably small--three rooms, and bedrooms squeezed into two of them. It feels huge that night, with only Steve and his regrets. He moves through his routine gingerly, trying to bend over or squat as little as possible. He made beans earlier in the week; they're still picking through the leftovers. He leaves the pot on the stove, half-heartedly hoping Bucky might come in, but the night pulls on toward the wee hours, and still he hasn't come back. Steve tidies up and puts the beans back in the icebox. He goes to bed, leaving the curtains open just in case.

He's woken by a loud thud and a slurred giggle. Steve cracks an eye into the flood of light from the kitchen; Bucky's a dark smear against the white walls. Steve checks the clock beside his bed: three in the morning. He huffs and pushes himself upright. 

Bucky's still in his shirtsleeves and vest. He's knocked the plank off the tub, and he's staring down into its depths as though they hold the mysteries of the ages. Steve stands in the doorway for a good half-minute, feeling roughly as intelligent as a bucket of rocks, before Bucky sees him.

He brightens immediately. "Stevie," he says, a sloppy smile spreading across his flushed face. "Steve, Steve, Steve-o." He launches himself off the rim of the tub and sways toward Steve. He reeks of spilled alcohol.

"You're drunk," Steve says dumbly.

"Yep," Bucky says before he's all over him like an unsteady, sweaty octopus. "I feel _great_."

Steve staggers against his weight. "Oof," he says. "What are you doing?"

"S'too far to the bed," Bucky mumbles against his neck, and Steve shivers at the wave of goosebumps his hot breath coaxes up. "Bath's closer."

"You--you're not gonna sleep in the _bathtub_ ," Steve says, suddenly wide-awake. He wrestles his way free of Bucky's grasp and shoves him to the sink.

"Why not?" Bucky persists, batting Steve's hands away.

"Because I'll never let you forget it," Steve mutters. He pulls down a glass, fills it, and holds it out. "Drink that," he orders.

Bucky leans in, his eyes heavy and dark. "Don't want water," he says.

He sounds like Cassidy, the way he's savoring the words. Steve's less than kind when he grabs Bucky's hand and wraps it around the glass. "I don't care," he says. "You're drinking it."

Bucky does, albeit with a pout, and Steve rescues the glass before he breaks it. He shoves Bucky back, then goes to retrieve the plank from where he dropped it haphazardly against the wall. When he looks up, Bucky's gone. He feels a heartbeat of panic before he sees him splayed out in bed-- _Steve's_ bed.

Steve sighs. "You owe me, Barnes." He straightens up the kitchen and turns out the light, then pads through the shadows to his bedside. Bucky's carelessly thrown across the sheets, already snoring. Steve looks down at him for a moment, contemplating the crisis he'll face in the morning. Then he bends and pulls off Bucky's shoes, picking at the laces with his nails and setting them neatly at the foot of the bed. Bucky's heavy with spirits, his limbs slack and loose, and rearranging him is a chore--but he's vulnerable in a way that leaves Steve feeling tender rather than annoyed. His slender fingers, so incongruously delicate against the calluses lining his palms, rest pale across Steve's pillow, and his cupid's-bow lips are gently parted. Steve sets one of the pots by his head and pauses to run his fingers through Bucky's hair. It's soft, curling slightly about his fingers. Steve purses his lips. He won't feel guilty for this, he won't. He turns out the light and crawls into bed beside him.

This isn't new, at least. He turns and presses his back against Bucky's, just like old times. He drifts off to the tune of his drunken snuffles.

The next time he wakes, its to the clatter of the milkman scooping up last night's bottles from the steps below. He's warm, almost too warm, and there's a heavy weight across his chest--

He almost panics before he recognizes the line of Bucky's nose where it's mashed into his chest. Bucky's wrapped both arms around him, and one of his legs is thrown over Steve's for good measure. Steve drops his head back against the pillow. Outside the window, dawn gilds the fire escape. Bucky's sleepy weight presses him into the bed, and he feels warm through.

Bucky shifts, inhaling deeply as he stretches. His hips come forward, and Steve freezes, because Bucky's semi is pressed against his hip through the layers of trousers and blankets. _It's Bucky_ , Steve tells himself sternly. _Just Bucky_. He tries to keep from waking him, but Bucky must sense something is off, because he rouses, lifting his head off Steve's chest. He squints. 

"Steve?"

"Yeah," Steve says. He takes a breath, forcing himself to relax. "How are you feeling?"

Bucky blinks and runs his tongue around the inside of his mouth. "Not bad. Been better." He looks around, wary. "Why am I in your bed?"

"You decided it was more comfortable than the bathtub," Steve answers. He keeps his expression neutral, and nods down toward Bucky's erection. "You gonna take care of that?"

There's a beat of silence, and then Bucky's flushing, jerking his hips back. "Sorry," he says, starting to push himself upright. He looks lost, he looks sick and guilty, and Steve, he. He doesn't want that.

"I could take care of it for you," he says with a shrug.

Bucky stares at him, thunderstruck. "What?"

"I could suck you off, if you wanted," Steve says again. "Or, you know. You could fuck me."

"That's--" Bucky sputters. "No!"

Steve looks away. It shouldn't make his heart ache, like this. He hides it behind bravado. "You might as well. I'm offering."

"Are you kidding? After yesterday?"

"So fine, I'll suck you." Steve doesn't know the demon pulling the words out of him, but he can't seem to make it stop.

Bucky rolls out of bed. "What the hell, Steve!"

"Hey, you seemed to like it in that alley!" Steve bites down on his tongue.

Bucky stares at him. Stares at him so long his expression fades from horrified to sad, and from sad to thoughtful. He stares long enough for it to get uncomfortable.

Steve shifts, looking away. "If you're not gonna," he says. "Out of my room."

"What if I sucked _you_ off," Bucky says, all in a rush. He licks his lips, looking for all the world like a nervous schoolboy.

It's Steve's turn to gape. Of all the things Bucky could have said--"You're not a fairy," he says.

"What if I was?" Bucky's expression is set. Steve knows he's stubborn, he hears it three times a day from everyone who knows him past nods on the street. But he knows Bucky Barnes is a mule too--maybe from dealing with him, but a mule nonetheless. They're a matched pair, at this point, and Steve knows the set to Bucky's jaw.

He knows better, but Steve tries anyway. "You're not, Buck, don't go saying things you'll regret."

"What, like you asking me if I want help with my morning wood?"

Steve flushes. "Yeah, exactly like that."

"You know what, Rogers? You know what?" Bucky's mad, now, it's snapping blue and hot like a gas jet in his eyes. "You're an asshole. You can dish it, but you can't fucking take it. What if I _want_ to suck your Goddamn dick, did you ever consider that?"

Steve's eyes fall to Bucky's trousers, which are tented around the line of his erection. He jerks them back to Bucky's face. Fine. Fine, he'll call his bluff. He schools his voice to nonchalance. "Jesus, if you want it that bad, Barnes. Knock yourself out."

They're silent for a moment, staring at each other. Steve shores up the fracturing walls around his heart, and looks away. "That's what I thought."

"God, you're an asshole," Bucky says again, softer this time, almost fond, and then he's kneeling by Steve's bed, cupping the back of his head and dragging him into a kiss. 

Steve gasps. Bucky's lips are warm and chapped. He keeps them closed; it's morning, and he was drinking the night before. Steve leans in despite himself, sighing against Bucky's cheek at the tingling nearness of him. The fine hairs on the back of his neck rise against Bucky's hand. Bucky lays a row of nipping kisses along his lower lip before pulling back.

Steve stares at him, speechless. Bucky licks his lips, this time slowly, deliberately, and heat spills through Steve's chest.

"Figure I owe you one," Bucky says. "Besides, you haven't lived until you know what it feels like, God, Steve." He leans back in, nuzzling up against Steve's ear, sending waves of goosebumps down Steve's neck and shoulders. "It feels so damn good, Stevie, I want you to feel that good."

Steve can't do anything but nod. "Okay."

Bucky pulls back with a cat grin, and shucks his vest and button-down, until he's left in his undershirt and trousers. He reaches out to the fronts of Steve's pajamas, unbuttoning them slowly, and Steve rocks up just a little, his skin prickling at the proximity of his hands.

"Easy," Bucky murmurs, then his hand is against Steve's cock, pulling him free from the layers of cloth, and Steve whimpers. It's _so different_ with Bucky, so different. He watches, stunned, as Bucky sizes him up, glancing between his dick and his face, before shrugging and wrapping his lips around the head.

"Oh, Jesus!"

Bucky slips off long enough to smile and say, "See, I told you."

"Why the fuck did you _stop_!"

Steve writhes beneath the hot suction of Bucky's mouth, and it's clear Bucky's as new to this as Steve is--there's a careful, gauging manner about how he bobs up and down, and every now and then he slips up and Steve hisses against the scrape of teeth. Eventually he finds a rhythm, and Steve's eyes roll back in his skull.

"Bucky..."

His hands drift down to card through Bucky's hair, curly and wild after a night without proper pomade, and Bucky makes a sound against Steve's cock that sends Steve jackknifing up on the bed.

"Bucky!"

This is nothing like Sullivan and his crew. Steve trembles at the brush of Bucky's fingers, and what his skin remembers, he wants more of. He glances down, and Bucky's eyes are closed, a strange, reverent expression on his face, and his lips, red and slick, stretched around his shaft--

Steve chokes and comes, right there in Bucky's mouth. Bucky pulls back, replacing the heat of his mouth with the heat of his hand, and jacks Steve through the rest of it. Steve hears him spit in the pot by the bed, but it seems a small matter next to the pulses squeezing through his balls, sending ribbons of spunk over his belly. He can't seem to catch his breath.

"Bucky," he gasps. "Please."

"I've got you," Bucky whispers, dragging his undershirt over his head and climbing up next to him on the bed. He stretches out, pressing along Steve's side, and Steve clings to him, his breath still hitching with aftershocks.

Bucky fingers the buttons on his pajama top. "Mind if I...?"

"Get it off me," Steve breathes, and Bucky chuckles, low and satisfied. He undoes the buttons one by one, pressing tender kisses against Steve's skin with each one he pulls free.

"That's what it's supposed to be like, Steve," he says.

"Yeah." Steve floats for a while, basking beneath Bucky's attentions, until he realizes Bucky's hips are hitching up against his leg again. He reaches over.

"Here, let me."

Bucky's eyes are wide and cautious, but also hungry. "You don't have to," he says.

Steve rolls his eyes. "I _want_ to, you moron. Come on, budge up so I can reach."

Bucky does, hiking himself up the bed so Steve can undo his belt buckle. His breath is rougher now, and it ruffles against Steve's hair. He strokes a hand against Steve's shoulder, back and forth, and Steve, emboldened by the trembling running through Bucky's whole body, pulls him free.

It's--it doesn't bear comparison with--with them. Steve bites his lip and pumps his fist, getting the feel for Bucky's cock. It's a little thicker than his, a little longer. The head seems bigger and naked without its covering foreskin. Steve thumbs the underside, and Bucky gasps, rocking up into his fist.

He doesn't say much as Steve jerks him off; mostly soft groans and choked-off whimpers. Steve hoards them all, storing them away along with the helpless sputter of his hips when he comes, and the twitching of his cock against his palm.

Steve's skin crawls at the splatter of his come. He grimaces; he flushes in embarrassment. His fingers dig into Bucky's hip. He jumps when Bucky fumbles for his undershirt, discarded by Steve's thigh. "Sorry," he says, wiping Steve clean.

"S'fine," Steve says, burrowing into Bucky's chest and pushing those memories in the past, where they belong. Bucky permits it for a time, breathing into Steve's hair, but then squirms loose, nudging Steve back against the bed and wrapping himself around him, tangling their limbs together the way they had when Steve had woken.

"What--"

"Shut up. Don't say a _word_."

"I'm glad Mrs. Ford shares the wall with your room," Steve says instead, and Bucky groans.

"I swear, Rogers, You're hopeless." His cheek is warm against Steve's bare skin.

"Yeah, but I just got you off. That's gotta count somewhere."

Bucky has a way of smiling that curls up the corners of his mouth before it splits into a wider grin. He does it now, propping his chin on Steve's breastbone. "Why do I stick with you," he murmurs. "Why."

"'Cause I make you breakfast," Steve says, brushing through his mussy hair. "How does bacon sound?"

" _Steve_. Come on. Just because I don't go to--"

"I'm making bacon," Steve says, pulling away. "You don't have to eat it."

Bucky sighs into the pillows. "No, really. Why do I stick with you."

Steve leans down and kisses him slowly, running his fingers over the side of his neck and jaw. "Dunno, Barnes. Why do you?"

"Wish I knew," Bucky says, kissing back.

***

END

**Author's Note:**

> NO MORE. All street names are made up, fyi, so don't go assuming I know my shit. I'm on [tumblr](http://kaasknot.tumblr.com/post/110170770154/starting-line-up-kaasknot-captain-america); I don't bother with research.


End file.
